The Decision
by Joe Greenbriar
Summary: Ash has been all over time and all over the world fighting the deadites. He realizes that his wish for a normal life just isn't going to come true and knows he has to make a grim decision.


The Decision

By

Joe Greenbriar

Ash hit the ground with a thud. The vortex that had brought him here was closed. He didn't want to get up or even breathe. He was tired and in pain. Ash could smell the grass and dirt that were right up against his nostrils. He could feel the warm, humid air against his skin and his wounds were barely covered by his tattered shirt. He knew without opening his eyes that he was not too far from the cabin.

"I don't want to get up. Why can't they find someone else to torment? Haven't I suffered enough?" he muttered to himself, still fighting the need to open his eyes and stand up.

He finally mustered up what little strength he had left and got to his knees and opened his eyes. He was right, he was near the cabin but found himself in front of the old, rickety-looking church that the local (cough...Inbred) inhabitants attend. His mind and body were in a shambles. He was so near the breaking point. Ash was damn strong but even the strongest people need a break sometimes.

Rising to his feet he trudged his way toward the rusty iron gates. His feet felt like they were made of lead. Each step took every bit of energy. As he pushed the heavy gates open he realized that his iron right hand was damaged. He couldn't get it to fully grasp the gate.

Ash sighed, "I'm surprised it still works at all after the beating I took." And with that he walked through the slight fog that twisted its way around the various, scattered and ancient graves up to the heavy oak church doors. From a dirty window he could see that there were at least a few candles lit, which meant that there could be someone inside. He had no more ammo. The chainsaw, fastened to his belt like a sword, was out of gas and a small satchel was wrapped around his body. If anything was going to mess with him he wouldn't stand a chance.

With limited strength he leaned up against the door, which to his surprise opened right up and he fell flat on his face onto the cold concrete foundation of the church.

As he lay there again thinking about how it was going to take a while for him to get himself up again, a kind voice said, "Are you in need of assistance my son?"

Ash, his face still planted against the floor, said to the man, "How'd you guess?"

"That is no way to talk to someone who is trying to help you, son," said the voice.

"Sorry…I'm sorry, Padre," Ash said, realizing that he WAS indeed being extremely rude to the very person he was going to ask for help. "Please, can you give me a hand?"

"Forgiven, forgotten," said the priest, taking hold of Ash's right arm and pulling him up. The priest led him to his personal quarters and put Ash to sleep on his bed. Ash was out cold as soon as his head hit the pillow. Then the nightmares started.

For years, he'd watched the deadites toy with his friends like they were some sort of meat puppets. One minute they're fine, the next they're milky-eyed, mottle-skinned freaks with murder on their minds. How many of his friends did he have to hack to pieces? How many shotgun shells did he pump into their guts? How many lovers did he have to bury? He'd forgotten. He could no longer keep count.

His last battle was of epic proportions. Yet another nameless and unspeakable terror from the time before man ruled the world blah, blah, blah. A few shotgun blasts from the trusty boomstick made in Grand Rapids, Michigan, a few slices with the good old chainsaw, an incantation or two, maybe not saying every little, tiny syllable but basically saying it and BOOM, here he was. But this sort of thing wasn't causing him feel the way he did, it was the decision he was tossing around, the decision that plagued his thoughts and dreams.

He was tossing and turning on the bed. He was mumbling something that the priest couldn't quite understand as he watched Ash writhe in his sleep; something about staying forever and never being able to leave.

"This poor man, what is going on in his mind?" The priest wondered. He got up and went across to the stove and put a kettle on to make some tea and to make some food. "Perhaps this could at least offer some comfort for him when he wakes up," he said to himself.

A few hours later Ash's eyes snapped open as he found himself in the priest's quarters. He saw the man who let him into the church. He appeared to be a kind man, in his early fifties with graying brown hair, and mustache and beard. Ash could smell the food cooking on the stove and was both starving and sickened.

"Oh, you're awake." The priest said with a smile. He walked over to Ash with a plate of food and a cup of tea and handed them to his battered friend. "I'm sorry my friend, it isn't much but this is all I have to offer."

Again, Ash wanted to reply with a typical sarcastic remark but again, he remembered that this man was only trying to help.

"Thanks, Padre." Ash said. He looked down at the plate. It was a…delightful meal of sliced up spam and macaroni and cheese.

"Eat, my son. It'll help." The priest said with a warm smile.

Ash was too tired and sore to refuse. He took a bit and never in his wildest dreams would he ever think that this spam/mac and cheese combo would ever taste so good. He shoveled in a few more bites and then sipped some tea.

"So, do you want to tell me happened to you? You look as though someone ran you through a meat grinder," the priest asked.

"Padre, if I told you, you wouldn't believe me." Ash said between chewing mouthfuls of food.

"Try me. I've been all kinds of places and seen all kinds of things. I spent a lot of time doing missionary work in the worst of places, seen children dying from illness and starvation and their parents powerless to help. I've seen war and death for years. I was a chaplain in the army."

"Padre, you ever seen the dead walk? Ever see a man being used as a finger puppet by a demon or trees attack your friends and rip them to shreds? Have you ever had to butcher a loved one in order to stop it from attacking you? Have you ever had to saw off one of your own limbs because it acquired a mind of its own, only to terrorize you even more after it finally fell off? Did you have to lead a bunch of primates against an army of deadites? This is the kind of hell I've had to live through for the last few decades," Ash explained, becoming a little agitated.

"My son, what on earth are you talking about, demons and such?"

"Don't you wonder what happened to the last priest that worked here, Father Allard? Some screw head who tricked me into thinking he could help me and sent me packing with a one way ticket to ancient Damascus."

"Wait a minute," the priest cut him off, "You're that Ash Williams person who was involved with those murders in the Knowby cabin all those years ago, aren't you?"

"What? Do you have cotton in your ears or something? Did you miss the part about me talking about demons?" Ash fired back. "I didn't murder anyone because they weren't people anymore."

"I'm sorry son; I didn't mean to offend you." The priest apologized.

Ash sighed. He knew he was being a little harsh. "Me too, Padre."

"You can call me Father Gregory. I don't mean to change the subject but, you mumbled something in your sleep about a decision you have to make. What did you mean by that?"

"Oh, that," Ash said, "Well, you see Gregory, all that stuff about the demons came from this book," and with that he reached to the side of the bed for the old leathery satchel. He pushed the chainsaw out of the way and picked it up. He reached inside and pulled out a book and handed it to Father Gregory.

"Here you go," he said, "this is the reason for this whole mess."

"Wow you don't see books with this kind of leather working on them," Gregory said.

"Uh, yeah, it's not leather exactly. That book is the Necronomicon ex Mortis, the book of the dead. That "leather" you're feeling is actually made of human skin and it's inked in blood. It's probably the poor sap's blood whose skin makes up the binding."

The priest turned up his nose once he realized what he was holding onto. He couldn't help but to crack it open and look inside. Within the pages he saw all kinds of strange drawings and cryptic looking writings.

"You're saying this book caused these deadites, as you call them, to come to life and attack you?" Gregory asked.

"Bull's-eye, Padre. You see, Professor Knowby translated it and recorded on a tape recorder back at the cabin. My friends and I found it and listened to it. Next thing I know my friends are turning into walking murderous corpses and I'm carving up my girlfriend in the work shed. This book is the reason for this whole catastrophe I've been living through for the 20+ years," Ash explained.

"But what about the decision?" Father Gregory asked.

Ash stood up and started pacing. "Yeah, Padre; I was getting to that. You see no matter what I do, no matter where I go this evil follows me. It haunts me. I haven't had a good night's sleep in 3 years because the nightmares are so intense. Then, um, wait, what's the date?"

"Oh, it's June 2nd," the priest answered.

"June 2nd?!" Ash asked with his eyes almost bugging out of his head. "Oh no, I missed it! It felt like I was there for a few days but I've been gone for two weeks!"

"Gone? Gone where?" The preacher asked, very bewildered.

"You see Padre, sometimes this damn book opens vortexes and there's no telling where you're going to end up and what you're going to face. First it was 1200 AD, England, and then it's off to Damascus. I've been all over the world, all throughout time. I've seen the old Shoguns in Japan; I've battled deadites in ancient Egypt, and even helped Julius Caesar save Rome from being taken over by the minions of the dark ones," Ash explained. He was proud but realized that his story must have sounded completely ludicrous. "This last little trip took me back to the realm of the deadites. Time apparently doesn't pass the same way as it does here, and now I'm sure I've been fired from S-Mart. The president of the company was coming to our store and I had to have everything ready in the Housewares department. Damn it! I was this close (he held his thumb and index finger as if to measure how close) to getting promoted to General Merchandise Manager. If the damn deadites could have waited a few more months for me come crack their bony skulls it could've been mine. Well I guess that seals the deal."

"What deal?" The preacher asked, "You keep talking about deals and decisions I'm confused."

"The cabin, Padre, the cabin!" Ash said. 'It all started and has to end there. This is the decision that I was kicking around. I'm the only person to survive this hell. The less I am around people the less of a chance there is that they end up a demon or chopped to bits! I'm tired of it, Padre. I can't live a normal life. I can't start a new relationship, hell I can't even make friends without them becoming possessed. And if this thing wants someone to take over, they can try to take me. And last time I checked it was deadites 0, Ash 5 or 6 or…um…who's counting anyway? The point is I'm the only one to have stood up to the deadites and won," Ash said, going from a complaint to a pep rally.

"Well my son, that was um… inspiring but if what you said is true aren't you putting me in danger right now?" The priest questioned.

Ash felt somewhat angry yet he knew the priest was right. By him being there the deadites could take over the priest's body. It's happened before with Father Allard. Being here endangered this innocent man but all he wanted was someone to talk to. He wasn't even at the cabin and he already began to feel stir crazy.

The priest walked up to Ash and handed the book back to him. "I'm sorry my son, but this is something I don't want to become a part of. In most cases I'd never turn away a member of my flock but I think you'd better leave.

Ash's head hung low. He couldn't even find comfort in a house of God. He opened the satchel and stuffed the book back inside. Then he collected his weapons and thanked the priest for his hospitality. Ash made his way from the priest's room and headed down the aisle toward the door. As he opened the door he head the priest say from the altar,

"Ash! May God be with you in your quest," the priest said.

Ash looked over his shoulder and gave a very slight smile and waved. Then he turned back around and headed down the steps and onto the path toward the gate. Graves stared at him from both sides of the all the way until the gate. He wondered how long it would be before the people in those graves would be crawling out to come after him. He passed through and headed down the lonely path through the woods and to the cabin. He didn't even need to look up at all throughout his trek and sure enough he was on the front steps of the cabin.

He knew already what it'd look like inside; kind of a crummy paint job, musty smell, yet not a splatter of blood anywhere. He reached above the door and found the old rusty keys and unlocked the door. Sure enough his assumptions were correct. Nothing looked like it had been touched. He stepped into the living room and heard the creek and crack of the planks beneath his feet. He closed and locked the door behind him.

Ash turned and looked around the room. At a quick glance it looked normal, as if nothing ever happened but something about the rocking chair near the fireplace caught his eye. There was something there that shouldn't have been. Ash walked a little closer and there it was; his severed hand. It was a little more rotted since his last encounter with it back in Damascus but how did it get back here? Suddenly it twitched and slowly stirred in the chair. It looked like a 5 legged rotting spider. It went back up on the stump that used to be part of Ash's wrist and gave a slight wave by wiggling its fingers. Ash sighed and shook his head. It was starting already.

"Home sweet home…"


End file.
